The reference to Zara made me jerk the steering wheel, which I’d been clutching tightly since leaving Boston for Maine an hour before. “Sorry,” Paige said. “But that must be a good sign, right? That I can refer to my dead sister’s PDA in casual conversation?” I focused on breathing—and driving in a straight line. Not wanting to worry her unnecessarily, I hadn’t told Paige about what had happened. It was the right thing to do, but keeping it to myself was becoming more of a struggle every day. “PDA?” I asked. “Public displays of affection.” She studied her cell phone screen. “I could count on a football team’s fingers and toes the number of times I caught her making out with random guys. But even she had limits.” She shot me a quick glance. “When it came to PDA. Not when it came to life and death. Obviously.” “Who doesn’t have limits?” I reached for the water bottle in the cup holder between the seats. “Parker King.” I jerked the steering wheel again—this time because the open water bottle was in my lap.
